


A Waking Dream

by Persephone



Series: Sons of Troy [16]
Category: The Iliad - Homer, Troy (2004)
Genre: M/M, Sibling Incest, Submission
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-11
Updated: 2011-12-11
Packaged: 2017-10-27 04:58:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,658
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/291826
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Persephone/pseuds/Persephone
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After Hector’s confession, Paris is determined to change Hector’s life. But for that, Hector must stand and face the music.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Waking Dream

Paris’s house servants woke him early, as he had requested. He bathed and went to his father’s advisory chambers to attend the session on overnight activity from the fields.

Hector wasn’t there. But Paris had known he wouldn’t be, it was the reason he had chosen this particular meeting. There were representatives from the fields, as well as the usual gaggle of Priam’s old advisors, and the king himself.

Paris sat quietly, not listening, thinking instead about what he had to say. He had only to convince his father of his proposal, and no one else. He only wanted the rest present so that Priam wouldn’t have to repeat it to them.

When the session drew to a close he spoke up.

“I have a proposal.”

They all stopped and looked at him, surprise on their faces.

He forged ahead. “I propose that we form a relief system for Hector. It would not be difficult at all. We appoint three or four soldiers who are of his stature and fashion such armor and shield as resembles Hector’s down to the last detail. The enemy would never know it wasn’t Hector leading our forces.”

There was silence around the room as he received blank stares from everyone, except his father, who watched him expressionlessly.

“To what end is this proposal?” someone finally asked.

Paris looked incredulously at the solider who had spoken. “So that Hector may _rest_. Hector fights without cease, and this cannot go on.”

More silence.

Priam said, “Paris, what has prompted this?”

Paris looked disbelievingly at his father. “Is it not in due course?”

“Our own fighters need to see Hector out there, Prince Paris,” a lieutenant said. “His presence keeps morale. Besides which, fighting for his city _is_ the duty of a prince.”

“I do not argue either statements,” Paris said patiently, ignoring whatever slight the soldier had tried to impart against him. “I merely suggest a way to help him. He is mortal, not a tireless god. And even the gods have time for leisure.”

“Such a proposal is outrageous,” scoffed an advisor.

“Perhaps you have been out of war too long,” Paris said calmly. “For it is often done in battle.”

“Paris…” Priam said gently.

He looked at his father. “Hector is the embodiment of our defenses, and we let him run himself into the ground.”

“Paris,” Priam tried again.

“We would not allow even our horses such labor.”

“Paris,” Priam rasped, his voice gentle and firm and pleading, all at once. Paris turned and looked stubbornly at him. Priam shook his head at him with a pained look on his face.

“He is his own man,” one of the old men was saying. “He can decide for himself when he wishes to stop fighting.”

“And how can he, when all of Troy clings to him as it does? He comes into the city and the Trojan women rush him, demanding news of their husbands, sons and brothers. He stays out in the fields and the soldiers cling for _morale_. Our allies cling for his constant leadership. Everyone, everyone wants some part of him.”

He stopped talking because his voice was rising and breaking, and he had vowed to himself he wouldn’t shout.

“A warrior and a leader gives,” the lieutenant said with some condescension.

Excepting Priam, the room nodded.

“Until he collapses?” Paris demanded loudly. “He has a wife, and a son, brothers. He has a father! No one else is this much asked of. There is only so much of himself he can give!”

Now he was shouting. Everyone around the table looked horrified. Which only infuriated him more. They looked at him as though he asked for something unthinkable.

“I am sorry, Paris,” Priam said softly from the head of the table. Paris looked at him. Priam’s eyes were wet. “It cannot be done.”

Paris got up slowly. He had come to persuade his father and instead had lost his temper to no avail.

He bowed to the assembly and walked out of the room.

He had not gone down two hallways when he came upon a group of soldiers sitting in a circle, drinking and playing a game on the cobbled ground.

He stared at them for a long time, watching their easy laughter. They were Trojans, not allies come for rest inside the city.

Paris smiled to himself, a malignant gleam in his eyes. He walked over and slowly stepped into their circle, crushing most of their game pieces. The men fell back around him, staring.

Paris locked eyes with the one who seemed in charge.

“Where is your captain?” he asked amicably.

“In- in his house,” the man replied.

“Really? At midday?”

“He came to see his wife,” he man said sheepishly. “He permitted us to come for a break from the fighting.”

Paris’s temper flared, but he calmed himself.

“Really?” he said again. “And where, pray, is Prince Hector? Would any of you know?”

He looked around, smiling openly. The men flushed, a couple licking their lips.

“He is still in the fighting,” the first soldier supplied.

Paris raised an eyebrow. “He fights hard,” he replied with feigned surprise.

“Yes, Prince. Harder than any man.”

Paris twisted his smile. “Harder than _you,_ at any rate.” The men flushed darker shades, and murmured to themselves.

“Well,” Paris said. “Perhaps you might bring him fine wine when you return to the fields. Whenever that may be.”

“He does not drink on the fields,” one of the others said in a tiny voice. Paris smirked as the first soldier rolled his eyes.

“No, he doesn’t,” Paris agreed, and leaned down to the young soldier. He ran his finger along his jaw and looked into his eyes. The man quivered under him. “He is too busy _fighting_.”

He watched the man unconsciously slid his hand to his inner thigh.

Paris stepped out of the circle. “Enjoy your afternoon of leisure, brave men of Troy, knowing that better men than you are not afforded that privilege.”

The first soldier stood up, understanding, and the others stood with him. They went in one direction and Paris went in the opposite.

*****

Hector took the stairs up to the pavilion two at a time, and it was a wonder he could see through the hot rage clouding his vision. Even before he crested the top step he saw Paris lounging among his waiting women, being fed oysters. Hector halted at the top of the steps and took a deep breath.

“Paris!” he bellowed.

Everyone in the vicinity jerked and snapped around to look at him. He stood with his arms braced across his chest and his legs apart. His eyes held a barely contained storm.

People around him shifted away. The women around Paris shifted away. There was now a cleared path between him and Paris’s recliner. No one and nothing moved on the pavilion, except Paris.

Paris was calmly skewering grapes with a small wooden pick. When he had a few, he brought the pick up and pulled the topmost grape into his mouth with his tongue. He showed no acknowledgment of Hector’s presence.

Hector’s chest rose and fell slowly. “I swear by Apollo, Alexandros. If you do not get off that recliner and get yourself to my tent _before_ I get back there, I will drag you out of Troy by your locks.”

There was perfect silence.

After a minute Paris let the pick clatter to the tray, got up, and slowly walked up to Hector. Hector dropped his arms to his side and made himself stand his ground.

Paris stopped inches from him, looked up at him, and said in a low voice, “But to you, I could do so much worse.”

Hector’s nostrils flared once, hard. “Get to my tent, Xandros,” he whispered fiercely, holding Paris’s gaze.

“Fine,” Paris replied, and stepped around his body.

Hector turned around and watched as Paris asked for a horse and immediately set out of the city, then headed in the direction of the palace, in search of his father. He had a request to make.

A short while later he charged up to his tent on his horse and caught up with Paris who was just arriving, riding his horse at a leisurely pace.

Hector sprang off his horse and stalked up to Paris.

“Alexandros, you are out of your mind,” he said flatly.

Paris dismounted slowly. “So what.”

Soldiers passed by them, and though they slowed their pace considerably, none stopped, or looked.

“You should not have made that outlandish proposal to Father. He doesn’t need to hear your nonsense. He is too concerned for Troy’s well-being, and all you did was add more strain. And to think you did it out of pure selfishness!”

Paris turned and eyed Hector. “Perhaps you did not hear me the first time. I said, so _what_!”

Hector took a deep, steadying breath. He was going to strangle Paris. He could feel his hands shaking with the effort not to grab him by the throat.

“Do you really think you can affect my behavior by going behind my back and whining to everyone?”

A soldier came towards Paris to take the reins, and Paris turned to him, but said to Hector, “What good would it have done to tell you any of what I had to say. Perhaps this way I would get your attention.”

“You _have_ my attention!” Hector roared. The soldier froze, then placed one foot behind him and slowly walked backwards in the direction he had come. The men around them gave up pretence of not listening. They stopped and stared.

Hector took a step closer to Paris.

“Do not come any closer, Hector,” Paris warned shortly. Hector smiled grimly when he saw Paris’s hand tighten on the reins he was still holding.

“Why?”

Paris calmly looped the reins around the horse’s neck, but his face was flushing deeply. “Why, he asks,” he sneered tremulously. “Aren’t you afraid of losing your precious will to fight? Aren’t you afraid of becoming my—”

“Do not dare say it, Paris. Do not mock me.”

Paris turned and looked at him. Hector watched the rays of the setting sun bathe Paris’s face with its golden light, turning his opals eyes nearly transparent, shining on all the anger, pain and desire in their depths.

Despite his anger, Hector’s breath quickened. He lowered his gaze to Paris’s mouth, away from those eyes. Paris’s mouth was slightly open, so he looked at his left ear instead.

“Mock you?” Paris said. “I do not mock you, Hector.”

Paris moved until their bodies were almost touching. “I only wish to offer you a way out. And you throw that back in my face.” He looked up into Hector’s face. “Hector,” he said thickly.

“Get inside,” Hector snapped.

Paris turned and went inside Hector’s tent, and Hector followed without looking around at the men watching the spectacle.

“Why are you angry at me?” Paris said, standing in Hector’s way as soon as Hector was fully inside the tent.

“Why are you angry at _me,_ simply because you prefer using this on me…” his hand swept under Hector’s skirt and grabbed his half hard cock, “…to using your sword in battle.”

Hector clamped his hand on Paris’s wrist and tightened his grip powerfully. Paris stared up at him and kept his hold. In one more second he was going to thrust into Paris’s hand. And Paris could see that all over his face. Paris gave him a self-satisfied smile and released him.

Hector’s face flooded with heat. He was playing with fire, when he knew better. But Paris had touched him, and his mind no longer worked to his benefit.

“You will regret that, Xandros,” he snarled, and used the hand he was still holding to propel Paris before him to a big wooden chair in the corner of the tent.

“Yes,” Paris moaned, going limp in his hands. “Make me regret it…”

Hector pushed Paris up to the chair, pushing down on his back.

 _You will,_ he thought grimly.

Paris’s hands flew to his hips and pulled on the rope there. It slithered off him and onto the seat of the chair. Hector pulled Paris’s robe off his shoulders and down his body as Paris gripped the thick armrests and slid one knee onto the seat. Through a blur of pounding need Hector unbuckled his breastplate and tossed it into the dust.

He stood behind Paris, slightly to one side, wanting to watch his brother’s face. Paris was flushed golden with desire, already panting, his hair a tumble of curls around his face. He looked so beautiful Hector felt his knees weaken.

The more he pushed the more Paris took, and it made Hector feel helpless. It made him feel that he was losing.

He pushed his hand into Paris’s hair and pulled his head back. Paris’s back arched and his head pushed back into Hector’s hand.

Hector reached forward and slid his forefinger against Paris’s mouth, and Paris sucked it in. Hector opened his mouth and filled his lungs with air, then slid his middle finger into Paris’s mouth after the first one.

Paris’s tongue slid between his fingers and thrust steadily, licking at the base where they joined. Hector began to sweat, but slid a third finger in. Paris’s teeth scraped across his fingers, biting his flesh.

Hector pulled his soaked fingers out and brought them to Paris’s entrance. He pushed one finger into Paris and began to work it in and out.

“Oh gods, Hector,” Paris moaned. “Don’t want… I want you inside me… now…”

Hector slid in a second finger and twisted both inside him. Paris’s groans got deeper, he begged again.

Hector pulled on his hair and slid a third finger inside him and then braced his legs and pistoned his arm. Paris’s head thrashed from side to side, his hair straining against Hector’s fingers.

“No,” he was whimpering. “No, Hector, no…”

Hector’s breath hissed through his teeth, his cock twitching ceaselessly, nearly hurting from its frustration. It squeezed out drop after drop of his warm seed, soaking the front of his skirt, rubbing against the pieces of bronze embroidered in it as he moved.

He bent forward and pressed his mouth to Paris’s ear. “How does it feel, Xandros” he whispered hoarsely, his fingers sliding smoothly. “To be denied, for once in you life.” He bit Paris’s ear lobe and got a jerk in response. “You should savor it.”

Paris mewled desperately. He shook his head over and over. He twisted his head despite Hector’s grip, and bit down on Hector’s wrist. Hector turned his fingers over inside Paris and stroked down firmly.

Paris jerked almost off his fingers, crying against his wrist. Hector moved with him and pressed his fingers back in. His cock jerked across the inside of his skirt and he tightened his hold on Paris’s hair so he wouldn’t reach down and grab himself.

“You think you own me,” Hector berated. “I tell you _no_ and you come for me anyway.” He slowly twisted his fingers and pushed them deep. Paris made soft animal sounds in his throat. “You want to keep me on my knees, burning night and day,” his breaths tore out of him now, “heedless of duty, of obligation, forever surrendering, forever captive—”

“You want it!” Paris yelled.

Hector shot forward and sank his teeth into Paris’s neck.

Paris let out a high pitched sound, an endless cry that made the hairs on Hector’s arm stand. A deep resonating echo emanated from his chest, and then for shuddering moments he was fighting against his climax.

When Paris’s cry had used up all the breath in his lungs, he began to convulse. His body clamped around Hector’s fingers and he shuddered and jerked under him, his cock spurting until he could no longer move.

In the silence, all that could be heard was their harsh breathing.

Hector slowly pulled out his fingers and stepped back, trying to slow his breathing so that his arousal would subside.

He watched Paris try to move, but fail because his long limbs seemed to have locked into position.

Hector picked up Paris's robe and draped it over his back, holding its arms out. Paris slowly slid first one, then the other arm through the holes. Hector took the rope from the chair and draped it around Paris’s waist. Paris slowly stood upright but couldn’t tie it.

Hector stepped flush behind him and reached his arms around his waist. Paris sank backwards into his chest as he tied the rope securely. As soon as Hector was done Paris turned around and locked his arms around his neck.

He pushed one leg between Hector’s and wrapped the other around Hector’s other leg. He buried his face in his neck and shook in his arms.

“More,” he croaked. “Love me.”

Hector stood and held him, his anger cooled. He had to make Paris leave, he didn’t want him to stay and see him disintegrate.

Hector pried Paris’s arms from around his neck and stepped away from him. He looked down at him.

“No,” he said firmly, even though his voice sounded as though he had never used it. “This time you will learn your lesson, Xandros. Go back into the city, and stay there.”

Hector stepped aside. “I have asked Father not to let you leave Troy again until I say so. So do not try and come out after me.”

Paris stared at him with eyes so wide Hector thought they must hurt.

“When will I see you again,” he whispered shakily.

“For once, stop thinking of your own needs. Stay behind the walls and allow me peace to do my duty to Troy. Go.”

He watched as Paris stumbled out of his tent.

He waited, counting the passage of time.

When he judged that enough time had passed, Hector moved back to the wooden chair and knelt before it.

The sun had gone down completely and darkness was setting in rapidly. His torches were unlit but he could see.

He rested one arm on the armrest of the chair and leaned forward over its seat. He could see the darker patch where Paris’s seed had spilled, he could smell him if he took a deep breath.

Hector took a deep breath.

He dug his fingers into the muscles of his sweat covered stomach and raked slowly, his breathing hitching. He moved his hand farther down and tugged his skirt to one side.

Then, encircling his hand around his rapidly hardening cock, he stroked himself roughly, pounding his slick hand into his groin. He panted hard, panted his brother’s name until his voice broke and his control spilled into his hand.

*****

Paris moved slowly as he entered his father’s chambers. Priam was expecting him for a midday meal, and he wanted to keep their engagement even though he couldn’t eat anything.

He had barely eaten since Hector had sent him back into the city five days ago. All he had done was sit at his window and stare out over Troy, into the fields.

He did not want to think about that day, he didn’t want to think about anything at all. Yet he did, incessantly. He thought of Hector denying him his body. His love.

Paris felt his legs weaken and he stopped and leaned against the wall, trying to think of how to win.

He thought of how much had changed between him and his brother that Hector had been capable of doing what he had done to him. What he was still doing to him.

Certainly Paris could leave the city whenever he wanted to, if he convinced his father it was safe. Which he had done many times in the past.

But what would he accomplish out there if Hector could just send him back unfulfilled and with an empty heart.

If Hector repeated what he had done Paris feared what his own response would be. He only knew it would be extreme.

He made himself push away from the wall and continue to Priam’s rooms.

Priam was sitting in a comfortable chair, listening to his musicians. Paris kissed his cheek and sat down opposite him, pulling his knee up and avoiding his eyes. He looked instead at the musicians.

Priam began to fill his plate, and stopped when Paris just sat there.

“Paris, aren’t you hungry?”

Paris shook his head, and then nodded. He reluctantly reached for the fruit platter.

His movements shifted his robe off his shoulder and before he could adjust it, he heard an exclamation from his father. Paris looked up to see Priam staring at his shoulder. He glanced down but saw nothing.

“Paris, my dear boy,” Priam gasped, leaning across the table towards him. “What happened to your neck?”

It took a moment to sink in, but Paris suddenly realized what Priam was talking about. Paris smiled for the first time in a long time.

He tilted his head so his father could see better. “Vicious, is it not? I was in battle a few days ago.”

“Battle! You haven’t left Troy for battle in weeks!”

“Well,” Paris twisted his lips to stop his smile from getting too wide. “Not _that_ kind of battle…”

Priam’s mouth hung open for a moment before he shut it and flushed all the way down his neck.

“My dear boy!”

Laughter pushed its way out of Paris’s chest, but it made his heart ache.

“But you are sure you’re not hurt?”

He smiled weakly. “It felt exquisite, Father.”

Priam coughed and shook his head. “You must stop before you give me a heart attack. But you are certain you do not need to see my physician—”

Paris laughed more easily this time.

“Well, alright, there is no need to laugh at an old man’s softness for his favorite son.”

“Oh, Father,” Paris’s laughter subsided and he smiled indulgently instead. “ _Hector_ is your favorite son.”

Priam stared at him in surprised silence, then laughed self consciously. “Who says so?”

“Father, if you could trade the rest of us to have him home safe every night, I do not doubt for a moment that you would.”

Priam recovered and made a half hearted attempt at bristling. Paris shook his head hurriedly.

“No, do not feel bad. He is everyone’s favorite, for all he does for Troy. And that is how it should be.” He kept his tone even and said, “I only wish there _was_ a way to make him return to Troy every night.”

“You see him more often than all of us combined.”

Paris snorted. “Once, twice a week, if I am fortunate.” He looked at Priam’s expression and quickly said, “What I meant to say is that fortune smiles down on us all when—”

“I know,” Priam smiled sadly. “Seeing him home safe when he chooses to return is sometimes more joy than my old heart can bare.”

Paris stared at his father, his breathing shortening. He opened his mouth to speak.

“Eat something, Paris,” Priam gently changed the subject, his voice hoarse and shaking. “I have been told you have not done so for quite some time now.”

Paris gave up trying to appear composed and reached across the table and grabbed his father’s hand.

“He is the son you love most in this world, and he does not even know it. He deserves so much more than that in this life. Send for him, Father. I beg you.”

One tear spilled down Priam’s cheek. Paris stood up, walked around the table and embraced him.

He stood silently with his arms around Priam’s shoulders and with his father holding him tight around his waist.

He was too exhausted to cry.

****

When Hector stepped into his tent that night after meeting with his captains, someone was sitting in one of the corners with his hood over his head. Hector dropped the flap behind him and carefully approached the stranger.

“Who are you?”

The figure stirred, and turned towards him. His heart stilled because he feared it was Paris. It had been seven days and eight long nights since he had confined him to the city.

His body begged him to ride into Troy and fall to his knees before Paris, to beg to lie down next to him. To ask for forgiveness.

But his mind told him he hadn’t done anything wrong. And in the midst of it all he worried that Paris was scheming. To get out of the city, to break him.

Hector watched the arms of an old man reach up and pull back the hood. His father sat before him. He stared in surprise.

“Hector,” his father said. “How long do you intend on punishing him.”

“Father,” Hector exclaimed. “You risked coming out of the city because of Alexandros?”

Priam stared back at him.

Hector released a deep breath and sat down on a stool.

“I intend to punish him until he learns some measure of self control. He thinks everything is a game he can win.”

“He does what he does out of love for you.”

Hector frowned down at the dusty rug beneath his feet. His heart was squeezing in his chest. He controlled his breaths so they wouldn’t shake as they left him.

“Paris overacts out of his own needs. And his behavior is often extreme.”

“Anyone can be guilty of loving too much. Do not hold such a thing against him.”

Hector’s frown deepened, and he tried to concentrate on the patterns on the rug. He blinked, his eyes stinging, painful stabs of self-guilt pressing through his body.

Whatever madness he attributed to Paris, his was a hundred times worse. For while he wanted to be free, he wanted even more to be enslaved.

“Why do I sense that you are punishing yourself as much as him?”

He shook his head, unconvincingly. “I am not,” he insisted. “But if I am…” Priam made a sound, but Hector continued, “…if I am it is only because I am too tolerant of his wildness.”

“So instead you deny him your love?”

“I do not deny him anything.” He looked away, towards the entrance to his tent, his mind drifting again. “Or maybe… I do not deny him enough. Whatever he wants—”

“Hector,” Priam interrupted sharply. “Paris _needs_ you. You are, even more than to the rest of us, his savior. You allowed this war for him and his folly—”

“ _You_ allowed this—”

“Your love is a thing of essence to him,” Priam said sadly. “He wants your…” his father fished for the right word while Hector held his breath, “… _approval,_ more than I have ever seen a man want anything. Almost to the detriment of his own peace of mind.”

Priam held up his hand when Hector made to speak.

“I do not make light of your anger and frustration toward him. You are justified, for it is   
indisputable that while other men fight he mostly carries on a life of leisure—”

“Taking nothing seriously.”

Priam let out a deep breath and gathered his robes about him, a sign that he was at the end of what he had come to say. Hector stood up moments before he did.

“Paris takes nothing seriously, true,” Priam said. “But I dread to think of how seriously he takes you, Hector. Do not make light of _this_ matter.”

His father reached the entrance of the tent before turning to whisper over his shoulder, “And, once in a while, there _are_ other men to fight.”

Hector’s mouth had gone completely dry. His heart contracted in his chest, and then contracted even more. He scowled and turned to his armor rack, and before he knew it had slammed his fist into his gleaming bronze shield. The pain numbed his fist, but left his heart unaffected.

He stared at the dent in the shield for a long time, breathing softly. Then he turned and stalked from his tent.

Inside the city, he took the route through the palace to get to Paris’s house. But even when he was within sight of Paris’s house he forced himself not to look up until he was right at the gates. Then he looked up.

In the torch lit darkness, Paris was sitting at a window sill. He wore nothing but a long black and gold embroidered robe. The robe was not fastened, seeming merely a token covering for the outside world. Its length hung down the side of the wall and waved gently in the breeze, occasionally blocking out the points of stars against the sky. His knee was pulled up in front of him and his bare chest rose and fell gently.

He was staring down at Hector.

Hector forgot to breathe. In the fitting darkness, his mind was overwhelmed with sensations, memories of what Paris’s scalding desire felt like against and around his body, in his hands, on his tongue.

He was in love with Paris, and no god or mortal could save him.

He lowered his eyes to the ground, stood still, and let his head burn.

He was not strong enough to go inside. He was not strong enough to go up there and accept that Paris could not change for him.

And that he would for Paris.

He gripped the iron of the gates. He cursed himself in the name of the gods, and in his city’s name, because he knew at this moment he could give himself completely to Paris.

And he could do so knowing he would not be able to go back to the fighting even if he tried to crawl back on his hands and knees.

It was what he wanted. It teased his mind mercilessly, ceaselessly. Paris was there, his. Waiting to set his mind and body adrift in pleasures he could not even dream of, if only he would let him.

What did all of this fighting matter, compared to that?

His father spoke of love. But neither he nor Paris knew what love meant. They were drowning in it, chained by it, infested with it. But it was their enemy in every sense of the word, its meaning eluding and mocking them with each passing hour.

Between him and his brother it was a fight to see who survived, who cried for mercy in defeat at the last.

It would be him.

He looked up. Paris still stared down at him. His dark curls waving around his face in the breeze. Even from where he stood Hector could feel his desire.

“Alexandros,” he called quietly. “Come down.”

Paris stood up and left the window sill.

It seemed like a lifetime before he came out of his front door. He had tied a thin strip of cloth low on his waist, barely holding together the front of his long robe.

Hector pushed open one side of the gate and stepped aside. Paris stood by the gate, not coming out. His eyes bore into Hector’s.

“I want a compromise,” he rasped.

Hector looked away, caught off guard. After a moment, he turned around completely, his back to Paris. He swallowed and tried not to blink so that his tears wouldn’t fall.

And yet he couldn't bring himself to believe what he was hearing. Paris was offering him a way out.

But he didn’t want Paris’s pity.

“I am never going to stop coming after you, Hector. I cannot because nothing in me will permit me to stop. I do not care that you think me untrustworthy, a destroyer, worthless. I am, after all, my own man. But… I just want you.”

Hector opened his mouth and breathed quietly through it. He took deep breaths and thanked Apollo when his head began to cool.

“We can talk in the gardens,” he said clearly, his voice steady. Paris whispered, “Alright” behind him and walked in that direction.

Hector waited for a few moments, then quickly swiped his hand across his face and followed Paris.

Paris stood by a stone bench in a small alcove. In its dark seclusion his skin gleamed with what little moonlight there was. Hector moved into the space, and began to sit down, then realized Paris wasn’t doing the same. He straightened.

“Sit, Hector,” Paris whispered, watching his face. “And I shall get on my knees.”

Hector’s hand sought and gripped Paris’s as Paris moved in front of him and sank to his knees between his legs.

Paris’s robe pooled around him, the embroidered fronts falling open all the way down to his stomach. The strip of cloth holding it together barely did that, and even his thighs were exposed.

“Xandros,” Hector rushed the words out before he lost his will. “I would like to… to apologize for taking out my anger on you.”

Paris’s eyes darkened. “When?” he asked quietly. “Do you mean for this last time? Or every time?”

Hector’s face flushed deeply.

“I do not hold it against you,” Paris said after a few moments.

“I thank you,” Hector replied hoarsely.

“No.” Paris reached up and gently pulled on a lock of hair curling against his forehead. He released it, and it slowly wound back in place.

“What I mean is,” Paris continued softly, “I do not hold it against you that you love me.” His warm hand moved down and cupped Hector’s jaw. “So why do you hold it against me that I love you. And want you.”

Hector looked away. _Because I have no self control where you are concerned._ “Because you would make me a slave, forever tied to your bed.”

“Why do you believe such a thing,” Paris crooned softly, and took his hand. “If I had you completely I would make you a god. I would fill your days with such exquisite fulfillment that you would see that none of that chaos out there matters.”

Hector groaned and shook his head.

Paris lowered his. “Men call me heartless and a coward, but I dare any man to endure what I endure over you.”

He brought Hector’s hand to this chest and covered it with his. Paris’s heart beat hard against his hand, but he could not tell which of them was shaking so badly.

“In your arms I learned to find release even with heartbreak,” Paris told him. “I learned to want it. In your arms I learned to cry. So what am I to do? I cannot go on like this. I thought to burn down this city because it would not let you go.”

Hector stared at the crown of his brother’s head, knowing Paris spoke his truth..

“A compromise, Xandros,” he croaked. “Ask me for something I can give.”

Paris’s head lifted, and he searched Hector’s eyes for a long time. Hector remained silent, and waited for his brother to save them both.

“Fight as tirelessly as you please,” Paris said. “But when you stop, sleep in my bed. Or let me sleep in your tent.”

Hector nodded slowly. It seemed reasonable…

“And always, let me touch you as I want.”

Hector’s heart tripped and his face heated in the sparse moonlight. Paris pulled back and watched him, his eyes roving all over his face, Hector’s hand still over his chest.

“It is… discomfiting,” Hector said.

It was Paris’s turn to look away. “I know,” he whispered hoarsely. Hector’s heart contracted suddenly. He had not known that Paris was aware of that.

Paris looked back at him. “Yet I mean it to give comfort, for you who fights without cease. Will you make this compromise with me, Hector?”

“I… I will.”

“Then ask anything of me, my love.”

Hector pulled his hand from Paris’s chest and placed both his on his thighs. He rubbed slowly, nervously.

“Need me less,” he said.

Paris placed his hands over his, letting Hector move their hands in unison. Then he moved his hands to the front of own his robe.

In one movement, he lifted himself off his heels and slid his robe off his shoulders.

There, in the open exposure of the central palace gardens, Hector had his answer.

Hector pushed the robe slowly the rest of the way off his shoulders, leaving him nearly naked. Then his eyes caught something on Paris’s neck, near his shoulder, and his heart stilled as he realized it was the marks from his teeth.

His eyes flicked up and he saw that Paris watched him look. Hector’s lashes swept down and hid the shame in his eyes.

Paris slowly tilted his head to one side, exposing his neck farther. Hector touched his finger to the bruise, and then lowered his mouth to it.

“I am so sorry,” he whispered against Paris’s skin. He lapped softly, then sucked. Paris held his head against his shoulder, rubbing his cheek against the top of Hector’s head.

Hector licked him until his tongue trembled with the need to bite him again…

“Undo your robe,” Paris whispered urgently.

Hector breathed over the bruised skin, then pulled back and looked at Paris. “I want you to do it, Alexandros.”

Paris made a sound, as if he had choked on his breath. Hector let his plea show in his eyes, urging Paris to hurry before he lost his resolve.

Paris kissed his jaw, then higher up to his cheek, lapping at his dimple. As he did so he slowly untied the rope at Hector’s waist while Hector held his breath.

Paris pushed and Hector’s robe slowly slid off his shoulders. Paris pulled back to watch it happen with his mouth hanging open.

“Hector…” he moaned softly, running his fingers lightly over Hector’s wide chest, over his brown nipples. Hector inhaled deeply at the touch, and Paris looked up and they stared at each other.

He stared at Paris’s beauty, saw the pure, blazing desire shining in Paris’s eyes, and closed his.

Paris pushed off his knees and slid into his lap. His knees settled on either side of Hector, and before Hector could say anything about the stone bench, Paris slowly thrust into his stomach. Hector’s hands gripped his buttocks and held him still with shaking hands.

Paris lifted up on his knees and when he came down again Hector had guided him onto the wet tip of his arousal.

Paris slid his arms under Hector’s, wrapped them around his torso. He dropped his head into Hector’s shoulder and pulled his hips forward. Hector growled softly and Paris began to pant.

He reared his hips backward and then brought it forward again, and again, and again, building into a steady wave, kindling a fire in Hector’s lap that melted him like liquid bronze.

Hector kissed Paris then. “Oh, my sweet love,” he groaned quietly into Paris's mouth as Paris moved against him. Then he closed his eyes and was unable to open them again for a long time after.

*****

For the third time that night, Paris lingered between wakefulness and dream, responding to sensations on his skin. This time the sensations came from the inside of his naked thigh.

His eyelids opened, but sleep slowly dropped them shut again. He forced them back open, and after a few attempts was able to keep them open long enough to look down the length of his body at the cause of the delicious sensations.

He was having a waking dream, a beautiful dream, for Hector was there in his bed, between his legs, kissing his thigh. He whined softly in his chest and slid his other leg over his dream’s broad back.

“Shhh,” the dream said softy. “Go back to sleep…”

He slid his calf over the warm back and moved his hand until it sank into soft curls. His fingers twisted slowly and he sighed and writhed, but could not stay awake. Just as the mouth on his body could not get enough.

 _End_


End file.
